


Bury Me Near My Workshop

by TheBoneMandala



Category: My Time At Portia (Video Game)
Genre: F/M, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-14
Updated: 2019-02-14
Packaged: 2019-10-28 02:25:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17778800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheBoneMandala/pseuds/TheBoneMandala
Summary: Based on the prompt: "You have a cold, you're not dying."





	Bury Me Near My Workshop

               You are a Builder. And not just any Builder, but the _best_ Builder in Portia. You even have the trophies to prove it! ~~Take that Higgins!~~  You’ve spent countless hours on your workshop, enduring _any_ and _everything_ that’s thrown at you! With everything you’ve gone through during your time in Portia, of course you don’t expect a few extra hours outside to have any effect on you…even if it was during one of the worst snowstorms of the year, but what does that matter?

               It starts as a tickle in the back of your throat. You ignore it easily, opting to drink a couple of extra glasses of water throughout the day.

               You wake up the next day unable to talk. It hurts to talk, laugh, swallow, breathe, or virtually anything else you do on a daily basis. But you didn’t earn the title of The Best Builder in Portia  ~~(suck it Higgins!!)~~ for the past four years by letting yourself get sick! So, you power through it, ignoring your fiancé’s pointed stares as he disapprovingly watches you fight to swallow your meals and communicate solely through writing on paper.

               The next two days has you moving slower than normal when you realize any quick or sudden movements now throw your equilibrium off and send your head spinning. You almost crash into a few townsfolk while trying to get to Central Plaza, totally _not_ leaning on the building walls to keep yourself upright.

               You spend the fourth day at your workshop, alternating between working on commissions and vomiting into the bushes beside your house. Gust comes home that night to find you bent over the fence and watches you wretch with a soft sigh. He moves your hair out of your face and rubs a few comforting circles on your back before you lightly push him away.

               “It’s just a stomach bug,” you say, “I’ll be fine tomorrow.”

               Gust doesn’t believe you.

               And you are absolutely _not_ fine the next day when you wake up with a pounding headache and the inability to breathe through your nose. Still, you stubbornly go about your day at your workshop, purposely avoiding Gust and his disapproving gaze.

               On Saturday, you take two steps from your bed when you collapse to the floor. Gust finds you trying to pick yourself up using the end of the bed for balance and decides he’s had _enough_.

               You don’t remember crawling back into bed…or being able to get up for that matter, but when you wake up, you’re in your bedroom snuggled comfortably in your blankets. You look around the room, trying not to move too quickly. The curtains are drawn but the only light in the room comes from the soft glow of candlelight coming from your living room and the few soft rays of moonlight streaming through your window. Pinky, Scraps, and QQ are asleep, sprawled out on Gust’s side of the bed. However, there’s no sign of your lovely artist.

               You gingerly get out of bed, trying to keep yourself from getting too dizzy, and pull the blanket with you to wrap around yourself. You walk softly out of your bedroom and wander into the living room where you find Gust working on something at the drawing table you had made for him when he moved in. His hair is pulled back into a haphazard bun and his suit jacket is draped over the back of the chair.

               You make your way over to him, sniffling and lightly coughing into the blanket. For a moment, he continues his sketch and you admire the way his hands flow across the paper. Architecture has never been a big interest of yours, but you always find yourself fascinated with Gust’s drawings and immense talent. You cough again, muffling the sound in your blanket to try not to disturb him but he hears you and his hand stills. Gust takes a moment to lean back in his chair and look over his work; a gesture you’ve come to learn in your years together is an invitation. You place yourself in his lap, legs thrown over his, and settle with your face nuzzled into his neck. He doesn’t hesitate to return to his drawing while his free hand comes up to lightly scratch at your scalp.

               “I feel awful,” you mumble into his neck. You hear him scoff above you, but he doesn’t say anything. You snuggle into him further, his free hand instantly moving to wrap around your waist and pull you closer. However, the movement jostles you unpleasantly and you groan at the sudden wave of dizziness and nausea. Gust’s arm tightens around you. “Will you at least bury me by my workbench?” you joke hoarsely.

               “You have a cold, you’re not dying,” Gust mutters, lightly pinching your hip. You try to laugh but it deteriorates into a cough.

               “I feel like I am,” you mumble into the blankets. You feel Gust tense under you and the realization of your words hit you. You instantly snuggle into him, placing a few small kisses along his neck. “Sorry,” you croak. Gust lets out a long sigh and sets his pencil down so he can wrap both arms fully around you. He leans back in the chair and you feel a light kiss on your forehead.

               Ginger and her condition have always been a sensitive subject for him; it had been almost two years before he’d opened up to you about it and even longer before he told you of his mother. You watched your words and the more macabre side of your humor a little more carefully after that and any slip ups are swiftly followed with an apology and a slew of comforting kisses.

               “What’re you working on?” you ask quietly, turning your head slightly to look at the drawings on the table, “more stuff for the Azula Project?” Gust gives a small nod, briefly letting go of you to move some of the papers on the table allowing you to see more of his drawings. You admire the incredible detail before a long yawn forces its way out of your mouth and quickly turns into another cough.

               “You should rest,” Gust speaks softly. You hum in response as that’s all your throat allows you to do and nuzzle into him. “ _In bed_ ,” he says firmly.

               “Trying to get me in bed when I’m sick?” you say hoarsely and smirk into his neck, “I’m flattered.” Gust’s immediate response is a disgusted scoff, but you can see the pink in his cheeks. You laugh quietly, placing a soft kiss on his neck then his cheek. You sit up slowly, using Gust’s shoulders to balance yourself as you dizzily pull yourself to your feet. Gust watches you intently, his hand hovering near you cautiously. You wobble a little but are otherwise okay.

               You turn, placing a hand on Gust’s cheek. He arches an eyebrow at you as your hand travels to move a few stray pieces of hair from his face. You lean over and place a kiss on his forehead. “Don’t stay up too late,” you whisper roughly, “you need rest too.” Gust leans against your hand appreciatively. You part with him reluctantly and he watches you meander back to your bedroom…and then pause at the door.

               You let out a laugh, and a cough, before turning back to return to the living room. You lower yourself onto the couch, bundling up beneath your blanket with one of the sofa pillows under your head. “Our bed’s a bit occupied at the moment,” you laugh and smile when you catch Gust staring at you. He stands, quietly walking to the bedroom door. The scoff that leaves his mouth means he’s no doubt seen your various pets now spread across the bed, sleeping contently and drooling on your pillows.

               “They need their own beds,” Gust mutters, shutting the bedroom door and making his way over to you. You nod, eyelids already heavy with sleep, and make a mental note to look into building recipes for pet beds when you’re feeling better. You hear Gust moving around the room, as you nod in and out of sleep. You feel his hands on you, lifting you up slightly, and your pillow is taken away and replaced with the body of your wonderful fiancé.

               “You’re not gonna kick ‘em out?” you question tiredly, taking comfort in the warmth of his body and the steady rhythm of his heart.

               “Not worth the hassle,” he yawns, one arm loosely settling across your back, “and someone needs to keep an eye on you.” He says it in his usual dismissively affectionate tone, and you feel his arm tighten around you. You scoff…and cough again, being sure to turn and cough into your arm and not on Gust.

               “I can take care of myself.” You barely get the words out, harshly coughing until your throat is raw.

               “Yes, I can see that.”

               You roll your eyes at his tone and the disapproving look you’re absolutely _sure_ he’s giving you.

               You cough a few more times before your throat finally settles down. Gust’s hand slides up your back and settles on your head, lightly massaging circles into your scalp. You shift around in an attempt to get yourself more comfortable and settle your chin on his chest so you can look at him. He’s staring up at the ceiling, looking very thoughtful and incredibly handsome. From his intent gaze, you’re sure he’s thinking about his project. You watch his thoughts bounce around his beautiful head, smiling at the way his green eyes glance across the ceiling.

               “Gonna be hard to sleep with your mind going a thousand miles an hour,” you whisper. You lay your head on his chest, bringing your hand up to lightly trace random patterns in the fabric of his shirt.

               “Harder when I have to listen to you cough up a lung every time you inhale,” he chuckles, and you feel your cheeks instantly warm.

               “Sorry,” you mutter.

               “Don’t be,” he says softly, “I don’t mind taking care of you.” There’s a kiss on the top of your head before Gust settles back onto the couch and shuts his eye. “Now _please_ get some rest.” You smile to yourself, winding both arms around him as you close your eyes.

               “I love you,” you mumble, already half-asleep.

               His chest rumbles as Gust laughs quietly and his other arm wraps around you to pull you impossibly closer.

               “Love you too.”


End file.
